


Independence Day

by violencetomyfeelings



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Era, Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Musically and Historically Inaccurate, Slavery, minor lams+hamliza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-01-21 21:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12466528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violencetomyfeelings/pseuds/violencetomyfeelings
Summary: When the secret of Hamilton's past catches up with him his world is turned upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

Drifting in and out of fever, Hamilton dreams.

He thinks he can hear his mother calling out to him in warning that the dogs are coming. He sees them, ravenous and eager to please, it is him behind them, musket in hand, island militia insignia across his chest, watching with a churning gut as they chase a fleeing woman, her desperate panting loud in his ears, the cheer beside him distant and jarring. It's him they chase through the jungle, he can hear the dogs, the whoops of the hunters. He collapses onto the inexplicably cold (why is it so cold?) leaf mold floor, unable to breathe, so drenched in sweat he feels he's been roasted alive or drowned in the freezing ocean, he isn't sure which. A dark figure of a man, cloaked and without a face, watches him. 'Run, Alex!' he hears her voice again, frantic. But he can not move from his sickbed. The man comes to him and grips his arms, his hands cold as ice, and there is ice piercing his head too, and he can not move even as a branding iron is pressed into his chest, burning, burning-

'Oh Lord, he's in a delirium, hold him steady-' he hears voices through the screaming, but all he sees is his mother's face, grim, telling him to be careful, and all he can think is that he failed her, he must have, for how else can this brand be burning across his chest, same as on hers? He's exhausted from fighting, he can only lay still...

'shh, hush now brave soldier.' Who is speaking? He turns his head to the voice, something cold and wet falling from his forehead. In a moment of lucidity he remembers where he is, perhaps. Perhaps he is a soldier suffering a fever, his mother long dead. Perhaps he has friends waiting for him, his military family, with General Washington at it's head- he remembers such a man, stern and warm and solid. His breathing evens.

He drifts off again, this time to more pleasant thoughts.

He wakes feeling impossibly weak, but his fever has broken so he must struggle onwards. Food. Clothes. It's snowing outside. You're not fit to travel, his host tells him. You very nearly died, young man, and you'll stay in bed until I say otherwise, the doctor tells him. He falls asleep reading his letters, words of affection creeping into his bones. Stay alive, I need you alive, you're the closest friend I have... 

(It's enough to push away the ever-present nightmare, not of death, but of the faceless entity that dogs his every step, lurking out of sight but never entirely out of mind. He's safe here. It won't come for him here.)

He misses them. The days are slow.

Washington has sent word, explicitly ordering him to recover his strength before making the journey to him. He prepares his report nevertheless, quite proud of all he achieved on his mission. He thinks Washington will be too, that he will reward him with one of his rare smiles and more importantly his confidence and perhaps a shot at command. His mind drifts inappropriately as he thinks of the general, leading him into the lurking fantasies of an unconsummated desire. He writes to Eliza, assuring her of his returning health and readiness to plan their wedding, smiling giddily as he does so. He writes to Lafayette in France, boasting of his successful mission, to Laurens back at headquarters.

He works, ignoring his doctor's advice. The doctor cannot understand that Hamilton has to be beyond excellence, none of them can. None of them know the legacy he is leaving behind.

 

His coach rattles into town at midday. The sun is melting the snow into slush underfoot and his boots are soaked as he walks to the station to find a horse for the last leg of his journey. He's so close, now.

He smiles at the manager. 'A horse for colonel Hamilton, sir'

The manager looks up sharply at his name. 'Colonel Hamilton, did you say?'

He cocks a brow. 'That's me.' 

'Ah. We have a problem then.'

Hamilton is confounded. The manager whistles to a boy, gives him a message in a low voice.

He has no idea what's happening, but the delay frustrates his already strained nerves. 'What are you talking about?'

'Magistrate wants you.' The manager returns to his work, not sparing him another glance.

'Why would- I am an officer in the continental army. I am under orders to join General Washington's camp without delay and you, sir, are delaying me.'

The man looks up again with a little more caution, eyes flickering to the pistol at his hip. 'So go clear whatever it is up and I'll have a horse ready for you.'

He scowls and looks around for possible alternate means of transport, spotting a supply cart. Slow, but at least he would get there. 

'Running only makes you look guilty,' the manager comments.

'Guilty of what?,' he asks in exasperation. 'I have not, to my knowledge, broken any laws except that of the crown!'

The man shrugs. 'Guess the law thinks differently. Look, here's the order.'

Fuming, he takes it. It gives little indication as to what it is about. Still, he feels a spike of unease, the noises of town too loud around him. He wants to get out of here.

He tosses the paper back to the man. 'There's been a mistake, and any issue the law has with me they may take up with me at a later date. I will reiterate: by order of the continental army, you will get me a horse, man.'

He stares hard, hand on his pistol. The man backs down. 'This way, Colonel.'

 

It's dusk when he trots into camp, the din muffled by gently falling snow. He hops off to greet the guards, stating his name and rank, noticing the raised brows and shared looks with irritation. His boots sink into the snow as he walks toward the stone house that is the center of activity, his exhaustion melting into excitement.

It feels like a homecoming.

But the place is a mess, that much he can see. It's worse than he was warned of. There's so much work to do. He pulls his coat more tightly around himself, already going over the logistics of it all.

'Alexander!' he hears the cry from a hooded figure ahead and he breaks into a grin, his steps speeding up.

Laurens pulls him into a tight hug and he closes his eyes against the wetness forming. For all the distance between them since he met Eliza he has missed him more than he can say.

'Sorry I'm so late.' Only by a month.

But to his surprise Lauren's expression is troubled when they part.

'Hammie, there's been a... an incident, since you've been gone. A man looking for you, making terrible claims.' He sounds furious, and Hamilton's heart picks up with trepidation.

'What claims?'

'That you...' his lip twists down. 'I'm sorry he hasn't just been sent away already, it's absurd, but he's got the magistrate involved so our hands are tied. I'm sure now you're here this will be cleared up. It's ridiculous.'

Hamilton tries to ignore the swooping anxiety in his gut, but this is exactly the sort of encounter he has always dreaded, the lurking fear in the back of his mind. It's probably nothing. But a little note of panic creeps into his voice anyway, as he asks, 'what. claims, John? I need to know what I'm dealing with here.'

Laurens looks at him and utters reluctantly, 'He claims you're a fugitive. A runaway slave.'

At that, Hamilton's world stops for a moment and he can not breathe.

He thought he was safe.

'Hammie? Are you okay?' There is concern there, but Hamilton thinks wildly that there might be the beginning of doubt. 

He stares down at Laurens's hand on his wrist. He has to breathe in deep and think. He has to focus. He has to be prepared to lie, lie, lie. Always be ready to run, Alex, and trust no one. (the specter is real)

'Who is making the claim?'

'A man named Lavien, of Saint Croix'

(the dogs are relentless in pursuing their mark. You can run but you can't hide)

He's unsteady on his feet but Laurens catches him. The truth must be beginning to dawn on him, and Hamilton cannot allow that to happen. 'Still weak from fever,' is his murmured excuse. Laurens keeps a hold on him.

It does cross his mind to simply turn and ride away from camp, but where would he go? He takes a moment to look around. Somehow, this ailing army is his home, these men his family. He looks up at the little stone house, smoke in every chimney. He thinks of Washington, expecting him.

He's never been safe, but now, surely...

He will not run.


	2. Chapter 2

He marches to the door and throws it open, ignoring the startled staff, his friends, his eyes seeking only the General.

Tench points to the next room. 'Good to see you too, Hammie,' he hears as he sweeps past, but he doesn't have time for that now.

He doesn't knock. 'Reporting for duty sir.'

Washington drops the paper in his hand. 'By God, Hamilton,' 

He rises and makes his way to him, but stops short of touching him. Hamilton feels something deep inside of him tremble, because he has missed him, but he is so very unsure right now.

'I'm glad you're here, son.' He doesn't quite smile, his face in shadow.

'I have much to report, sir.' His voice feels raspy.

'I know you do,' and he sighs. 'I'm afraid we have a rather unpleasant matter to discuss first of all.'

Hamilton swallows. 'Laurens has summarized as much.' Unpleasant indeed.

Washington sits and gestures to the other chair. 'You must be exhausted. Now...' he hesitates.

Hamilton looks him over. Already he seems older than the last time he saw him. Atlas carrying the world, a hundred problems grooving their marks into his noble face. Hamilton was supposed to ease his burdens, but instead he seems to have made them heavier.

He really has no idea how to deal with this.

'Laurens said that he had involved the magistrate, tying your hands in the matter?'

Washington scowls in a way he would not in public. 'The nerve of the man, to make such a claim... But I cannot dismiss the law out of hand, so there will have to be a hearing. I trust you have the necessary documents to clear the misunderstanding?'

His fists clench in his lap. 'I...' Washington stills, puzzled. He glances away. '...might not, sir.'

He can hear Washington's frown in his voice when he responds. 'Such things can go astray, I suppose. He claims to have proof. I would prefer there to be no doubt in the matter.'

He closes his eyes. Lavien probably does have proof, and he has none- only his word, and that word is a lie. An expectant silence grows between them as he prepares for his confession, but Washington speaks first.

'Alexander, I am struggling to understand how this agent of Lavien has been able to provide such compelling proof. He has documentation of his right to your mother, records of your birth, and a witness to both your and her identity. The Judge is all but satisfied. Only in deference to your position has he awaited your testimony. The news is spreading. It makes a mockery of your office and a mockery of me.'

'Surely in this time of war your word is law-' he stops at the look upon Washington's face.

'I have always held a high opinion of your character, Alexander. I cannot believe that the allegation is true.'

The statement hangs in the air, but Hamilton is unable to come to grips with it's implication. He stares up at the man, his mother's warnings in his ears but his heart yearning for trust.

'It's true,' he whispers, and just saying the words feels like committing a sin. I'm sorry, Mother. Forgive me, Father. He is ruined, helpless.

'What?' 

He opens his eyes. Washington is bewildered, his eyes darkening and regret wells up in him like vomit, but it's too late now. His eyes slide shut. He can only go forward. 

He can't bear to repeat himself. 

'Hamilton, tell me this is some sort of ridiculous prank-'

'It's not,' he bites back harshly, and a dry sob shakes him, because Washington is incensed and he cannot turn back now and he is so tired.

'My mother escaped from Lavien's estate. She met and married my father as a free woman, and I was raised as a free man. That is the basis of his claim.' And this is the first time he has uttered those words aloud. Surely...

Washington stands abruptly and begins to pace the small study, his expression thundering.

'Sir?'

'Do not speak,' comes the cold reply.

'But sir-' he has to know what's coming.

'No, Hamilton!' He whirls on him and Hamilton shrinks away, dismayed by the anger directed at him. He wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't this.

He cannot accept it. 

'I will find a way to dismiss him in court, sir. I have studied some law,' he begins with vigor, already beginning to plan his defense.

'The law,' Washington repeats softly as if in contemplation, ceasing his pacing to gaze down at him. His face is in shadow but he can see the rage there.

He raises his chin and straightens, determination setting in. He's come too far to be captured now. Lavien won't know what hit him. 'I assure you sir, I will deal with the matter in a timely fashion.'

But Washington still has that look about him. 'The law is fairly clear on the issue, I should think.'

He pauses, confused. 'Sir?'

'Have you fully recovered your health?' he asks abruptly.

He nods. 'I have been deemed fit for duty by a professional, sir,' he adds, because he knows his compatriots do not always trust his judgment when it comes to his own health.

'Good. You will stay inside this house. You will not speak to anyone. Is that clear?'

'...what?' 

Washington puts on his coat. 'That's an order, Hamilton. I am going to settle this myself.'

He slams the door behind him before Hamilton has the chance to ask any of the questions now streaming through his mind.

 

How long he sits there, breathing heavily as the world crashes around him, frozen solid by Washington's words, he could not say. The urge to chase after him is as strong as the paralyzing weight his general's words hold over his mind.

Listening to the clock tick, his panic lulls but his agitation only grows. He stands.

Tench, Meade and Laurens might have been discussing him, as they all fall silent the instant he walks into the room, his mind made up.

'Where did Washington go?' he demands of them.

'Hammie? What's going on?' Laurens asks, taking his arm. Distantly Hamilton is aware that he's trembling a little.

'He went to speak to the magistrate,' Tench says, frowning. Laurens' grip tightens.

Hamilton pulls away, seized with the necessity to act. 'I'm going.'

'No you aren't,' says Tench, stepping forward as if to block him. 'General's orders.'

But he's already made up his mind. 'To hell with that,' he growls, pushing past him and marching for the door. The cold air hits him like a wake up call from hell. There are footsteps behind him as he makes his way to the stables.

'It's true, isn't it?' He hears behind him as he saddles a fresh horse. He doesn't turn. He doesn't want to see the look on Laurens' face.

'Even with all the evidence, the General wouldn't hear of it... he won't let this stand.'

Hamilton believes it, his heart aching, but he needs to go there, he needs to fight this himself.

He leads the horse to the doorway, but Laurens bars his path, his brow furrowed uncertainly. 'Are you trying to run?' 

(be ready to run, Alex)

'No,' he says harshly, hysteria rising.

'You're not supposed to go anywhere, Hammie, don't do anything stupid-'

Acting on impulse he punches him square in the gut, feeling the give of soft flesh. Lauren heaves with the unexpected blow and it's all the opening he needs to yank the alarmed horse forward and leap upon it's back, riding hard into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Exhaustion and soreness are a distant memory to the urgency he now feels.

It's the same road he took earlier, snow thickening on the ground. It's dangerous to go at such speed but he hardly cares, the threat of pursuit heavy on his mind. 

(the dogs are relentless pursuing their quarry, he watches them tear down runaways by the ankles. Would his mother be ashamed that he had participated in the militia? perhaps, but she would tell him to do what it took to survive)

His heart beats so wildly that he imagines it stuttering to a halt in his chest, like one of the horses he rode on his mission north, crumbling underneath him from an unseen weakness, sending him tumbling onto the hard ground, luck alone saving him from injury. Or perhaps the horse would slip in the snow and crush him, and he would be a little blot in Washington's history.

The images of his death that flash through his mind are more soothing than frightening, nothing to the terror the truth holds. He doesn't slow down. 

He finds Washington where he expected him, in a dimly lit office with a disgruntled magistrate and a cloaked man- Lavien, or his agent? The sight of his would-be master sends a shock through him. He's surprisingly small, and it seems impossible that he could be the tyrant of his nightmares, but then, he hasn't seen him with a whip in hand, yet. His breath is caught from exertion, his lungs weak from weeks of illness. He stands panting in the open doorway under the glares of the men within.

Washington is thunderous.

'Sir-' he starts, or tries to, but his breath is still short.

'Are you Alexander Hamilton?' He turns his focus to the magistrate, who speaks and looks at him with annoyance, no doubt at being kept in his office this late.

'Yes-'

'Son of Rachel Faucette?'

'Rachel Hamilton,' he grinds out. 'This is slander against her,' he speaks quickly, 'created by a unscrupulous man who was enraged at her refusal of him-'

'Such an elaborate fantasy you weave of my father,' The cloaked man, Lavien, interrupts. He turns to the magistrate. 'Well, it appears my property has delivered itself to me. Thank you for your time.' He doffs his hat. Hamilton tenses, steps forward instead of back.

'This is a tory conspiracy against our army-' he starts furiously.

'Enough, Hamilton,' Washington speaks at last. He gives Hamilton a single black look that makes his insides shrivel, and then ignores him.

'I must assure you with utmost sincerity that I had no knowledge of the boy's history. I apologize for having obstructed justice in this instance, but until he confessed to me earlier today I did not believe it possible.' Washington speaks with solemn dignity and Hamilton is at loss.

'Yes, well,' the Lavien waves him off. 'I am glad to have this settled at last.'

'To think, a slave among the highest of ranks,' the magistrate shakes his head. He boils with impotent rage.

'No one is more shocked than I. But let it be assured that the continental army considers a man's right to his property a very cornerstone of civilization.' Hamilton recognizes those words, distantly. They were his own. The subject of supply requisition had been a sore one, without conclusion. 'Mr Lavien, if you could spare me a moment outside... Good evening, sir.' Washington nods to the Magistrate.

He's startled when Washington takes him by the arm and leads him out of the office.

Outside in the snow, lit only by the lantern, they stop. Lavien is close behind, fuming.

'What is the meaning of this?' 

'Mr Lavien, I am pressed for time. What is your asking price?' 

Hamilton starts, doesn't catch Lavien's reaction as he's too busy craning to see Washington's face. It's guarded, impassive, as it ever is in negotiations. The grip is almost painful but he hardly registers it. Somewhere amid the fear and outrage, there is relief. He hardly dares to hope, but he does.

'£200 Sterling.'

'That's ridiculous,' he snaps, and the attention of both men falls to him. He swallows, thinking quickly. 'I'm not worth a pound and you know it. I have a weak constitution, I almost died a month ago of a recurring fever,' Lavien's brows are rising, and he hears Washington sigh, but he ploughs on, 'additionally I am undisciplined and will never obey you- I’d rather die,' and for good measure he spits at him. Lavien takes a step back in disgust.

'I dare say I can break you boy,' he sneers hotly.

'I'll kill you and I'll kill your overseers and you'll never get anything but misfortune from me until I'm in the ground!' He's straining against Washington's hold, ready to kill him there and then.

Washington shakes him, hard. 'Sir-'

'As you can see he is somewhat unruly.' He sounds almost amused and that's enough to calm Hamilton a little. '£80 should not only cover the costs you went to obtaining him, but also bring you a tidy profit.'

Lavien snorts. 'Not good enough.'

Hamilton wants to rip his tongue out. 'That is a more generous offer than you could ever hope to expect elsewhere you piece of shit-'

'I am willing to raise to £100,' Washington interrupts him, and Hamilton can't help but imagine that if Lavien refused he would not go any higher, but Lavien has the slimy confidence of one who thinks he has the upper hand.

'£150 and or we're done here,' he says, and Hamilton holds his breath and his fury in agonized anticipation. The pain in his arm is becoming difficult to bear, too.

'Done,' Washington repeats.

'You could go lower, sir' he says peevishly. His head is spinning.

Lavien shoots him a nasty look and Washington snorts, letting him go. 'Let us settle this then,' and he gestures back into the building, for they would need to borrow a pen.

It feels at once completely normal and completely surreal to have Washington dictate to him the promise of payment. He's done it many times before, after all, but this time the merchandise is himself.

Washington signs the cheque, and then the document of ownership- his document of his ownership. The reality is beginning to set in, now, and he almost feels as if his fever is returning, the way he feels hot and cold and a little faint.

Washington's steady hand guides him out into the night, perhaps gentled by his noticeable state of shock.

He's surprised when Washington touches him again, lifting his chin to look at him. The general had always abstained from any sort of intimate touch.

'My Hamilton,' he says softly, but it's not quite tender. Washington is still... angry, perhaps disappointed? He cannot even begin to parse the events of the day, let alone his general's feelings.

He's so tired.

'My horse is nearby, sir. We should get back.'

Washington releases him. 'Yes. Let's ride.'

Shivering from cold and exhaustion and all the tumultuous emotion of the night he follows Washington down the dark and treacherous road. The wind whips snow into eddies around them, their path almost vanishing from sight. They can only walk, in this weather. His teeth chatter, his toes are freezing. It may have been better to stay in town until morning. He tries to think, to plan, but it's difficult.

'I'll pay you back every penny, sir' It will take him too many years, but he will do it.

He doesn't know if Washington hears him. He says nothing, and in the dark he cannot see his face.

By the time they ride into camp he's struggling not to sleep on his horse.

Washington is still silent as they enter the house, warm air washing over them. Tench is snoozing in the front room, no doubt having intended to wait for their return, but he blinks awake at the noise.

'Sir!' he stands straight, drowsy. Sees they are both present. He makes to speak, but Washington holds up a hand.

'Go and sleep, colonel. Hamilton...' he looks over with a frown.

He straightens, wishing for nothing more than a bed. 'Do you have need of me, sir?'

Washington is tired too, that much is clear. 'With me,' he says finally. 'No need to disturb anyone else.'

 

When they reach Washington's own room he isn't sure what he's meant to be doing, now. He stands straight, awaiting instruction, wondering if he should be making up a bedroll on the floor or not. Surely Washington isn't inviting him to his bed-

(he'd already turned him down once, and they did not speak of it.)

He begins to undress in any case, trying not to look as Washington does the same. The meaning becomes apparent when he is tugged forward with a yelp.

'Sleep, Hamilton,' comes the exasperated command. 'We have business enough come day break.'

The bed is comfortable- far more comfortable than he's sure his quarters would be were he sleeping with the aides. Washington is warm beside him. He's too tired to fret, to think, even, and he quickly sinks into a dreamless sleep, unaware of Washington's restless mind beside him.


	4. Chapter 4

He awakes in the General's bed to Billy Lee shaking him.

He looks around himself, bleary eyed and startled, wondering what on earth he is doing here. The memories, when they return, make him feel nauseous.

Billy Lee is watching him very closely. He can't quite figure out how to ask if he had a particularly vivid fever dream last night or if-

'Master wants you downstairs.'

He blinks at the familiar tone, his mind still groggy as he rises, but is quick to heed the instruction, reaching for his uniform and dressing hurriedly, cursing as he gets his hair in order. He must stink of the road, but there's no time for that. Reality hits him in a fresh wave before he leaves and he feels unsteady. He sits heavily back on the bed, his breath coming short, needing to martial his thoughts before he can make an appearance.

Numbly he feels a hand on his shoulder, but Billy offers no words of comfort.

'I thought I might have dreamed the whole thing,' he croaks, trying to wrangle his emotions into order. He hears a sigh.

'Best not to keep the master waiting, lad. He's not happy with you.'

 

Work is in full swing downstairs, the sun already high in the sky. He pauses in the doorway, for once uncertain of what it is he should be doing. He remains unnoticed. He wishes he could keep it that way.

But he needs to speak to Washington, and his study is on the other side.

A silence falls as he walks, followed by stares. Unwillingly he catches Laurens' eye, finds a troubled, unfriendly face.

Well then. He knocks, this time.

'Hamilton, good, you're up.'

'Sir,' he greets steadily.

Washington eyes him critically. 'Take off your coat,' he orders first. Hamilton is baffled, and it must show, but he doesn't argue. He takes off his coat in jerky motions. It's not too cold inside the building, well insulated and heated by all the bodies and fires inside, but he feels naked without his uniform.

Stripped of his rank. Perhaps that is the point.

He had thought to thank Washington, but the words won't come out, now.

He stands, hands behind his back, steadying himself. He doesn't know where to start. Washington has turned his attention to the papers in front of him.

He clears his throat.

'Sir, I have yet to make the report of my mission.' 

Washington puts down the letter in his hand. 'Yes, I suppose we should begin there.' He glances up, just briefly as if he does not like to look at him, his brow still furrowed, his mouth a thin line. 'Take a seat.'

Without preamble Hamilton launches into his tale, habit leading him to give no indication that his situation has in any way changed. He had written and sent reports over the course of his trip, of course, but there were always things that were not safe to put in letters. His current plight fades into the foreground as he speaks. He lifts his chin with stubborn pride as he relays the information he had gathered and his negotiations with the northern generals. He knows he did an excellent job.

He is still a soldier, and Washington must see that. Indeed, for the next few hours it is almost as if nothing has changed- almost, except that Washington is cold, brusque, and spares him no praise.

It bothers him more than he could ever admit. His fingers clench around the arm of his chair as the thought passes by: this was meant to be his promotion.

Bitterly he soldiers on, leading the conversation into speculation as they have done countless times in the past, the General always having been interested in his ideas.

'Sir, I suggest that-'

Washington waves a hand to silence him, his eyes narrowing. 'Enough, we have covered all that needs to be discussed.'

He bites his lip. 'Are my suggestions no longer desired, your Excellency?'

Washington gives him a flat look, full of what he recognizes as iron self-control. What terrible emotions lie behind that control are not difficult to guess, but too painful to acknowledge. 'No, Alexander, presently they are not.'

Alright then. He has a more pressing concern in any case.

'Sir, about my situation-'

'Pick up a pen, Alexander,' Washington cuts across him. Hamilton obeys with great patience.

'Write a draft with the request of a loan for £120, to be delivered immediately.' But Hamilton writes nothing.

'Sir, is that-'

'The majority of the sum promised to Mr Lavien? Why yes, boy. Having donated much of my personal wealth to our cause, I find my finances stretched thin. I promised him specie that I cannot, at this point in time, provide.' He leans forward, hands clasped, his focus intent.

Hamilton resists the urge to curse with some difficulty. He thinks.

'Considering the circumstances, any creditor would require some sort of insurance in the event of your death. What do you intend to offer?'

Washington is silent for a long minute. Hamilton's foot jiggles in impatience.

'Tell me Alexander what you would consider fair. You have caused me a great deal of trouble in addition to being expensive. I could also complain of having lost a promising young officer to your great deception.'

He swallows. 'You could hardly say that you have lost me, sir.'

'In light of that,' Washington continues, more or less ignoring him outright. 'Do you think it fair that yet more of my personal property, that which I share with my wife, be collateral for your sake?'

He puts down the pen, his gut sinking. 'No sir.'

'Then what would you suggest, my boy?' Washington's gaze feels like a test.

'...me, sir. I will be the collateral.' It's an obvious solution. Images of slave auctions swarm his mind in a heartbeat, and he can almost feel the shackles closing around him, so vivid is his fear. He calms himself. Washington would not subject him to that. It is only insurance.

But it does mean he cannot be freed until the debt is paid.

The statement hangs heavily in the air. Washington stands.

'Draft the document,' Washington orders him gruffly. He feels his hand on his shoulder as he passes on his way to the main work room, back to the business of war.

Alone in the office Hamilton gives in to a burst of rage, seizing his inkwell and hurling it on the floor. It doesn't make him feel any better.

 

He finishes quickly and composes himself before stepping out into the workroom. The General is no where to be seen and had given him no further instructions, so he makes his way quickly to where Laurens is seated and clears his throat.

'Anything for me to do?'

There's a moment of silence as they stare at one another, Laurens seeming to be making up his mind.

He picks up a letter from his pile and hands it to Hamilton. 'For translation.'

Breathing a sigh of relief he sits next to him and pulls fresh paper to him, observing out the corner of his eye that Laurens is watching him with equally indirect interest.

'I must apologize for the way I behaved with you last night,' he says softly. 'I...' but he can think of no good excuse, so he leaves it at that. 

Laurens sighs heavily in response and turns to stare at him fully. 'What happened, anyway? The General's summary was... succinct.'

He tenses at the question. 'I suppose the whole camp knows by now,' he responds roughly, not wanting at all to speak of the night's events. Wordsmith he may be, but finding adequate words to describe his predicament seems like an insurmountable task right now.

'Rumors are flying,' Laurens prompts him curiously.

He winces, any answer he could give stuck in his throat. He stares down at the page with burning eyes and says nothing.

He works, and Laurens relents, but the atmosphere does not ease as the day draws on, Hamilton trying and failing to ignore the whispers and the stares, and the reluctance on the part of his colleagues to give him tasks of true importance.

He needs to speak with Washington about his role now, clearly. From conversation around him he knows Washington had gone to inspect the troops, and eventually impatience gets the better of him. Donning his officer's coat he steps out into the weak afternoon sun.

In the light of day he can make his own inspection of the army at last, and it is in a poor state indeed. He sees haggard men without proper shoes, shivering under insufficient clothing and blankets. Making his way through the hastily constructed cabins he passes corpses of starved horses being carved up where they lay. He looks away, marches on.

Looks and chatter are to be borne with gritted teeth, but when he hears a jeer directed at him he stops, his temper fused short already. Without much thoughts he turns to glare at the soldier who had given him insult, taking in his low rank and unrepentant grin. He isn't alone, but Hamilton feels no compunction about marching straight up to challenge him.

'Would you be so kind as to repeat that, Corporal, so that I may have cause to knock your teeth in?'

The soldier laughs incredulously. 'You can't lay a hand on me, slave, not that you ever could have done. Slight little thing, isn't he?' he asks his comrade. 

'Pretty too. Maybe that's what he kept him for! Better not rough him up too much.'

Hamilton jerks forward as quick as a snake and pulls the soldier down by his shirt, cursing in his face. The man reacts quickly, shoving him off and Hamilton launches himself forward in earnest, striking him in the jaw.

He's not in much condition for a fight, but then, neither is his hungry opponent. There are, however, two of them, and it's not long before he's on the ground taking searing kicks in his ribs.

But the soldiers don't keep it up too long, content with spitting and jeering at his prone form before abandoning him there in the muddy snow.

He struggles to his feet gasping, burning in utter humiliation. Doing his level best to ignore his audience he turns miserably back towards headquarters, not particularly wishing to encounter the General in this diminished state.

But as luck would have it he meets Washington mid path. He stands to attention, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

'What on Earth?' Washington is taken aback, his brow furrowed as he looks him over, displeasure marking lines in his face.

Hamilton cringes. He desperately does not wish to have to explain, but his better judgment wins out, so he delivers a crisp and succinct report, leaving the exact conversation exchanged vague but asserting that the insults to both his and his General's character had been intolerable.

Washington's countenance darkens, but it is not that he responds to.

'Hamilton,' he asks slowly, his tone ominous, 'do you mean to tell me that you struck a soldier?'

'I- yes, sir. Under extreme provocation,' he adds defensively, but it's too late and he knows it.

Washington shakes his head from sheer incredulous exasperation and beckons him to follow with a curt gesture.

They end up facing one another in Washington's office for the second time that day, Washington coiled with anger, Hamilton feeling his own resentment at the injustice of it all beginning to bank and flow.

'Sir, those men took your name and raked it through the mud-'

Washington cuts him off with an unamused laugh and throws a pile of letters and pamphlets on the table. 'You protest of slander against me, as if you are not the cause of it? These are the news and the rumors of the scandal you have created, boy. A fugitive slave! Allowed into the inner circle of our burgeoning nation's military! I would ask if you can imagine what they say of me, but it seems you are well aware, not that it appears to have given you an instant of self-reflection, as I now find you parading around camp in the uniform of a Colonel, utterly without shame for your misdeeds or respect for your superiors, brawling with enlisted men!

His gaze is hard, his words harder. He's seen Washington like this before, worked up into a ranting fury, his usual restraint gone, but it has never been directed at him.

Rather than intimidate him, however, it merely bolsters the urge to fight and he shouts back without a flicker of doubt.

'Forgive me for pursuing the cause of liberty,' he spits the word. 'I have served you- I have served this army for years now, I have fought and bled and you have never had reason to find me wanting!'

'No, I did not! Except, apparently, in the one aspect that is above all, the fact that you lied and cheated your way here, and have made a fool out of me! I trusted you. I was wrong.'

He doesn't know what to say to that- it guts him, and any hope he may have harbored for understanding dissolves into anguish. Washington is furious, and perhaps he is right to be. But...

He grits his teeth. 'I did not chose the circumstances of my birth, sir. I chose to become a patriot and a soldier! Do my actions mean nothing, now? My education, my victories, the rank I earned? My service and my loyalty were not a deception!'

He might as well be beating his fists against a stone mountain. Washington's storm rages on, unconquerable.

'Do not test me, Hamilton, I have half a mind to give you the flogging you've always deserved for your constant insubordination-'

'We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal!' he shouts-

CRACK

He staggers under the unexpected blow, his cheek stinging sharply, his ears ringing in shock.

'You will be quiet,' Washington breathes, incensed. He shudders, his great frame looming over him.

Hamilton doesn't look away, can't look away. He's on the verge of tears, holding together but barely. His shallow hiccuping breaths don't allow him to speak. He flinches when Washington takes him by the shoulders, trapping him against the wall, his voice lowering but no less dangerous for it. 

'Are you aware, you insolent child, of the usual punishment for slaves who assault free men?'

A cold sweat trickles down his back as the answer flashes through his mind, bloody and terrible, and he manages a nod.

'Since your wits appear to be sluggish today, let me make it very clear to you: you no longer hold any rank. Be grateful you are here at all.'

The general releases him and turns, shoulders still shaking in anger. 'Get out of my sight, boy.'

He's rarely felt such haste to obey, picking up the discarded uniform and walking in short steps to the door.

'Hamilton.' 

He stops, fingers clenching around the handle. He's not prepared for whatever it is Washington has in store for him.

'Billy will find work for you in the coming days. Perhaps it will help you adjust to your new station.' 

The tone is venomous and sinks like a knife through his flesh. He almost turns and argues, but the stinging of his cheek keeps him in check.

'Sir,' he grinds out, and hurries away, his head down as he makes his way through the deathly silent workroom, all eyes on him.


	5. Chapter 5

_My dearest ~~Eliza~~ Miss Schuyler, _

_I write to you with the deepest and sincerest regret. You may have heard rumors of my disgrace, and it is my duty to confess to you their truth: I am enslaved._

He puts down the pen. The words still produce a shudder in him that threatens despair, but he knows this must be done. Haltingly, he tells his story.

_I can only beg for your forgiveness for my dishonesty. You see I was not raised a slave, and believed myself to have left that legacy behind me. I do not believe this situation to be permanent. General Washington was kind enough to rescue me and I intend to pay him back. Even so, in the light of these revelations I am honor bound to break our engagement. I love you with all my heart and wish only the best for you, and even when I am freed, to marry me would condemn you to ignominy and poverty._

_You have been an angel to me in these dark times, and I will never forget the tenderness you showed me. My heart is forever yours. Alexander Hamilton_

 

He sleeps on the kitchen floor. It's cold and it's hard and he has little in the way of blankets. Some of his discomfort is admittedly self-inflicted; he eschews asking to snuggle up to any of the other servants in favor of his own corner, miserably wishing to be alone even if he sleeps worse for it.

 

Billy has him working outside the house, muttering that it's best to stay out of the master's way for the time being, lay low. Hamilton might agree, but it forces him into contact with the soldiers, and their contempt and open speculation that he is forced to bear with a lowered head make it every bit as humiliating a trial as exacerbating Washington's anger would likely be. There's much to do and he doesn't shirk it, but the menial nature of it does nothing to improve his already foul humor.

Nor does the mist he makes with every breath as the days that follow are exceptionally cold, or the lingering weakness in his body. He is given some clothes in place of a uniform but they might as well be rags for all the protection they afford. He looks yearningly up at the stone house that presides over camp, smoke continually rising from it's chimneys. When he has occasion to work in it's underbelly he is shamefully grateful for it's shelter.

He sees Washington just once, the General's eye passing over him while he is gathering laundry. With only a flicker of acknowledgment he sweeps past on his way to his far more important business. He almost speaks, but Billy nudges him in warning, and Washington is quickly gone on his way.

Billy keeps a close eye on him.

'Why do you always watch me?' he finally asks in irritation.

He shrugs. 'If you run, it's on my head.'

Hamilton narrows his eyes. 'Did Washington order that?'

'Yes.'

He turns away in anger. 'I'm not going to run.'

Though God only knows why, he thinks angrily, but the notion passes. He wants to go and tell Washington that himself, make his case once more, but he has a few shreds of caution. He can concede that it isn't worth annoying him just yet. Wait, Billy had said. An unnatural prospect, but though Hamilton scoffs, he heeds his advice for now. It's sensible, if difficult to bear. Let the storm blow itself out, and then perhaps some semblance of normalcy can be regained.

'Where does he think I would go anyway, the British?' He remembers, now that he thinks on it, hearing that Washington lost some slaves to them. They had run, joined the enemy, and were now fighting to defeat their former master.

It is a common enough tale.

He had taken an oath of loyalty upon assuming his office, and while he may no longer hold it, surely Washington could not think him a traitor? Except that seemed to be exactly what Washington thought of him. Was that not the source of his rage, at it's core? He hates it, but the thought softens his own resentment towards the General a fraction. He had betrayed him, in a way, and it was not unnatural for him to disillusioned.

'My chance for freedom is here, Billy. You don't have dog my every step.'

Billy has a remarkable talent for showing nothing of his thoughts, and his voice is equally bland as he says, 'you're creole. You know, we hear horror stories about the west indies. They say it's far worse than here... they say slaves are worked so hard they seldom make it to 30, the torture and executions liberally given, but the masters don't care as there's always a fresh supply. They say they practice black magic so that even when you're dead you're still a slave.'

It's a ridiculous superstition, Hamilton knows that, but it still strikes fear into him. As for the rest, his mother never spoke of her life before, but he could hardly escape the knowledge of what awaited him if they were found. Particularly not after he had been recruited into the militia charged with protecting the paranoid free men from revolt.

'It's a hell-hole, yes,' he says evenly. 

'Well there's something you should know... bad slaves, real bad slaves, those ones he sells to the islands. He traveled there once. He knows what he's sending them to. It's enough to scare most straight.'

The words cut jagged through him. 'I didn't know that,' he says quietly.

He wonders if Billy is lying. His eyes are drawn inexorably to the brand that decorates the muscle of his neck. He wonders if enslavement is truly more genteel in Virginia than it is in the isles. He doubts it.

(But Washington is an honorable man, a truth he holds fast to however he resents him. Stern but fair, if given to temper.)

'I have a family, back in mount Vernon. Wife, beautiful children. The thing is, for us, everything we do reflects on us all. When you act out, it's not just you who'll be punished. Remember that.'

Billy's eyes are not unkind, he thinks. He is world-weary and cautious, wrinkled at the corners with specks of gray in his curly hair. His warning is fair.

'I don't want to cause any trouble for you,' he says earnestly, and means it.

 

Laurens comes to find him one evening as he eats his reduced ration with Billy, huddled in the semi-darkness of a single candle.

'Hammie?' he inquires uncertainly, looking around the kitchen.

Hamilton doesn't particularly wish to see him, but he says nothing as Laurens sits beside him, his eyes soft with pity. A silence stretches between them. Only Billy is untouched by the awkwardness, seemingly uninterested in them.

Finally Hamilton speaks in a rough voice, 'How can I help you, sir.'

Laurens frowns at his sarcastic tone and undisguised antipathy. 'I came to ask after your well-being, actually.'

He nibbles on some of their firecake. Billy gives Hamilton a pointed look and when he offers no protest, kicks him under the table too. So he takes it from Laurens hands, flushing in humiliation at his former friend's surprise. 'We get half-rations, John, and you already ate.'

He hands the firecake over to Billy, unable to meet laurens' eye. Laurens adjusts in his seat, building up to say something. Hamilton watches out the corner of his eye.

'I've spoken to our General in more depth regarding your situation,' he announces at last.

He puts down his firecake, his heart pounding. 'Oh? And what judgment have you and he passed over my fate?'

'I'm trying to help you, Ham. There's no need to be like this.'

'Like what? I evidently have no control over this situation.'

'Washington paid a high price to keep you here. You're awfully bitter about it.'

'And I suppose I should be grateful,' he returns grumpily, as if he hasn't thought it himself. He hates the words in Laurens' mouth.

Laurens stares at him. 'You might well be, yes. And frankly, you are being rather self-absorbed. We could really use your help upstairs, if you would be so mature as to pull your act together.'

His fingernails bite into his palm as he clenches his fists. 'I suppose I should be grateful you're even giving a lowly slave the time of day, too.'

Laurens huff and stands. 'Never mind then. Good night.'

He glares at the table as his friend leaves, his firecake forgotten.

'Well that was stupid,' comes Billy's unconcerned comment.

He scowls at him.

'He's rich as balls and he's sweet on you. He might have bailed you out. Probably not, but might have.'

'Is that so different from belonging to Washington?'

Wildly different, but in his bad humor he's not about to concede any point to anyone. Besides, it's not as if the extensive wealth of his friends hasn't crossed his mind, but the prospect of begging for their aid is still too much of an affliction to his pride. Washington or Laurens, either way he would intend to reimburse them. And while he has never been Washington's equal, the prospect of going from comrade to indebted charity case is an additional insult he's not ready to contemplate.

Billy shrugs, finishes eating and leaves without another word. Hamilton finds his own rest, such as it is.

 

So Washington is angry with him.

With more time to dwell on it, he understands well enough why. It's hard to escape the talk of the camp around him, or avoid the logic of how his disgrace brought shame to them all and struck a dangerous blow to the discipline and reputation of their forces, though the injustice of it rankled. And though the General may be overreacting, in Hamilton's opinion, he can only endure his exile and prove to the general that he is worthy of his confidence.

Because surely Washington does not intend to waste him on grunt work. Washington, who valued men of talent. Washington, who had always shown him affection, who had trusted him-

It's hard at times to keep faith while shoveling shit, and a thought besieges him that he never did receive any confirmation that Washington intended to free him at all. It had not occurred to him to ask, for he had never had any doubt in the matter, but now that the question has wormed it's way into his thoughts his impatience to speak with Washington grows to a crescendo until it seems that the only way to keep his sanity is to receive some- any- indication that all is not lost. If he even had the chance to look into Washington's eyes, he thinks, he would find answer enough to soothe his soul. He can endure any punishment so long as there is hope of salvation.

When the hour he knows Washington will be taking a break rolls around he throws down the shovel and makes to leave, but Billy catches him. 'Where are you going?'

'I have something to discuss with Washington.' he speaks with defiance.

Billy rolls his eyes. 'Don't be stupid. There'll be occasions for that later, but if you don't wait for him to ask for you you'll only make more trouble for yourself.'

'I have a plan,' he says quickly. He does not, but he's making one up as they speak. 'I have only a simple question for him, and I will show him contrition and not ask for any reprieve. He will see that I have learned my lesson.'

Billy doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't hold him by force, so Hamilton marches away, ignoring his reluctant chaperone.

He finds the General on his midday stroll at the edge of camp, deep in thought as he crunches snow underfoot.

'Your excellency, sir' he greets, clasping his cold hands behind his back.

Washington pivots to face him, frowning in surprise. '...yes?'

'Sir, I must ask you something,' he begins gravely. Washington's countenance is guarded and dangerous, but it would be worse to have bothered him for no reason, so he won't turn back now. 'When I have paid my debt to you, do you intend to emancipate me?'

It feels utterly absurd to voice such a question, but his instinct is to draw them right out into open battle is not tempered by any alternative ideas.

Washington's eyes widen and he stares at him for a long moment. 'Walk with me.'

He does his level best not to let his teeth chatter as they wander between the bare trees that offer scant protection from the wind. Billy is left behind. The General is calm today, and he feels more level headed himself. There is true conversation to be had, now.

The General's first order of business is nevertheless a rebuke, which Hamilton endures with fortitude. 'As ever you have no sense of tact or timing. Do not speak of such things in company, and certainly not the company of slaves. You will foster me a reputation for unfair treatment.'

It is an exhortation he can accept. He did, after all, come here to be diplomatic. 'My apologies, sir. And I did not seek you out to ask for favor or reprieve, though I believe my skills are being wasted.'

Washington snorts and he tightens, for he had not said anything he considers funny.

'You will undertake whatever duties I give you until I am satisfied you will not act so inappropriately again.'

He nods reluctantly. 'I understand. But I do wish to know the terms of my... debt. And what my future will hold. Sir, if I am not to be a Colonel, is there any rank I might hold, even the lowest? If I cannot earn a salary, how am I to ever pay you the price you are owed?'

Have I not served you utterly and wholly enough, he thinks, to deserve my freedom? Are you keeping me in suspense to punish me for my dishonesty? He does not ask those questions. He suspects the latter is the truth.

Washington sighs heavily, shaking his head. 'I had never realized how selfish you are.'

The unexpected criticism stings, and his hands clench, but he is still trying to practice diplomacy. 'Sir?' he asks.

'For Heaven's sake look around you boy. My men are starving, underfunded, under trained. We are losing this war. And yet all you have is petty complaints and requests for more favors! I have been more than fair to you.'

His fists clenched, he tries very hard to reign himself in. 'I only ask for clarity. I had thought you would...' he has to pause to gather himself again.

But Washington shakes his head and finally answers him, taking him by the shoulders and gazing frankly into his eyes. It sets his heart aflutter.

'All in due time my boy, and I do not intend for your considerable talents to go to waste. You are very valuable to me. There will be chance enough for you to earn your freedom. But for now, by God, cease pestering me and do your part. If this army does not survive the winter there will be no hope for any of us in any case. Get back to work, and enough testing my patience.'

His mouth snaps shut, and a small measure of lightness returns to him as the gray cloud of doubt clears. He still has questions of course, such as whether he will be able to fight with the men, but it is progress. He salutes and seeks permission to return to his work, careful to be professional.

He shovels shit with renewed vigor, and he is patient as the days pass. He will be called upon eventually.

 

Laurens is by the fire with the other aides.

The conversation stops when he comes in, Tench and Meade sharing an uneasy glance. They don't invite him to join them, and Hamilton, with clenched teeth, has nothing much to say to them in any case. He focuses on the purpose he came for and asks Laurens for a moment alone.

Laurens keeps his eyes on his cards and he thinks he won't respond, but after a moment he puts the cards down and joins him in the dimly lit corridor.

'I'm sorry,' he begins quickly. 'I am bitter- I've lost everything... The day you came to speak with me I had just written to Eliza to end our engagement.' He thinks perhaps some small possessive part of Laurens might be glad to hear that, for they hadn't been as close since his courtship of her- although, he also thinks Laurens might have no interest in him at all, now. 'I shouldn't have taken it out on you.'

Laurens breathes out, leaning against the wall, and gently takes his hand. The display of contrition seems to have had the intended effect. He is encouraged to go on.

'You know I cherish the ideals of liberty so close to my heart... this is intolerable for me John. Washington has been very generous to me, but he cannot free me yet because,' he steps closer, lowers his voice confidingly, 'you mustn't spread this around, but he hasn't the coin for my fee and he took a loan. I don't have enough to pay it off...'

'I'm aware, Hammie,' Laurens answers softly, and Hamilton blinks in surprise.

They're very close now. It's been many months since they were intimate, but Hamilton has no fiancée to be faithful to now. He's rich as balls and he's sweet on you, the words pop into his head, and he tries not to cringe.

He pulls back a little. It's silly anyway. He's dirty and dressed in rags, and hardly cuts a dashing figure. He can't imagine Laurens would be seduced. 'So you understand that I... I can do nothing but work, and wait.'

He glances at Lauren's face, tries to gauge his response. He expects he has lost his respect and that their friendship will never be the same, and he's not sure he wants whatever comes after, but Billy is right, he cannot let this opportunity slip.

'I can pay, Hammie. It's already been agreed in principle with the General. I only await the funds from my father, and then you will emancipated.'

He breathes out, startled, relief shadowed by inexplicable anger. This may be his chance at an early liberation, but it was decided without him and he struggles to find the grace to properly show gratitude. His smiled is too pained. He steps in for an embrace, hiding his face.

'You are a true friend, John,' he manages thickly.

Laurens is stiff to his touch. If Hamilton had been working himself up to providing some compensation he needn't have worried, for Laurens steps away and bids him good night, leaving him to temper his raging soul in the stairwell.

A door opens behind him and he steps to one side, head down.

'Alex.'

He looks up, startled and caught. After avoiding the man for days he does not know what to expect, but Washington looks at him coolly, no trace of ire left. He merely seems tired.

'Your excellency, sir.' He even bows a little, playing the part.

A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Washington considers him, head tilted, features soft in the flickering candlelight. 'I hear you have been behaving yourself.'

It's ridiculous and he feels like a child, but the praise makes him stand that little bit straighter.

To his humiliation Washington's nose wrinkles. 'When was the last time you bathed?'

He flushes, his lip twisting in an effort not to scowl outright. 'The last time I had access to a bath, sir.'

To his relief Washington is not annoyed by his backtalk, chuckling instead.

'Make yourself one in my room tomorrow night. I have something to discuss with you.'

He squeezes Hamilton's shoulder and sweeps away, and Hamilton's heart beat picks up in anticipation. 

It looks as if his exile may be coming to an end.


	6. Chapter 6

He's been a mess of anticipation and nerves all day when Billy turns him loose with an inscrutable frown. He doesn't concern himself with the man's opinion, whatever it may be. Washington is downstairs dining with the men and it he's not sure if he is grateful for the time alone or impatient for whatever it is Washington has in store for him. He's never been less sure of what Washington wants or expects of him, and never less at his mercy, and he considers that a dangerous position to be in. He cannot be at ease until-

Until, until. For now he must focus on what small gains he can make.

He lets himself into the chamber with a sigh. For the first time he really takes in Washington's chamber- it's not large, but it isn't as pokey as some of their lodgings have been. The bed he remembers as comfortable. There is a dresser, a small table, a fireplace with seating before it. And now, a bathtub

Sinking into hot water is heavenly, a luxury he has not enjoyed in what feels like forever. He immerses himself fully until it feels like he's drowning before rubbing precious soap suds into his skin, brought to moaning at the sensation. 

He doesn't quite relax, though, and the sound of the door opening brings him immediately splashing to his feet, wincing internally at the water that falls to the floor.

It's Washington in the doorway, the dark cloud he has been under these last days giving way to an intake of breath at the sight of him there, and Hamilton almost panics at a stray doubt that he might have misunderstood the order-

'Alex,' Washington greets him, closing the door. He doesn't seem angry now. Hamilton relaxes a fraction, and then blushes as he remembers his nakedness. Worse, Washington is looking at him and his body responds instinctively, his blood rushing.

He scrambles out of the tub, reaching for the towel, but Washington takes it first, moving it out of his reach.

He pauses, his heart beating wildly in it's cage. This can only mean one thing, and he's burned with lust for long enough, but it nevertheless sends through him a prickle of dread.

'Sir,' he pulls back, twisting his hands. 

'Here, let me wash your hair, son.'

He blinks, calming his breathing. Sinks back into the water and waits, watching carefully.

Washington seems a little unsure himself, and that puts him at ease a little.

The tension as he waits in the still warm water is almost unbearable. Washington's motions are slow, thoughtful. He has a thousand questions he's not sure he should ask. When he finally feels those fingers make their way into his hair, massaging his head slowly, he has to close his eyes, overcome. He grips the sides of the tub to ground himself and Washington chuckles, his motions soothing.

'Relax, my boy. I'm not going to bite.'

'Maybe I like biting,' he quips back, annoyed at himself for being so tense, his heart beating fast at his own flirtation.

Again that intake of breath. His stomach churns, and he doesn't know what he wants. He closes his eyes, blots out the world, focuses on the gentle motion of Washington's hands.

Until he is impelled to speak.

'What do you want, sir?'

The fingers still. 'Do you need to ask?'

He really doesn't. His eyes clench more tightly shut. 'I want to hear you say it.' he challenges harshly.

In response his head is pulled back into the water. For a wild moment he thinks Washington is going to drown him and he tries to jerk away. The grip tightens for a second, but then he is released. He surfaces gasping and coughing, shuddering, his eyes not open enough to glare at man beside him.

'You offered yourself to me, once,' comes a low rumble, the simple words shooting a thrill of heat through him. Opening his eyes he can see Washington's sleeves are wet, his hands clenched, and his cock hard in his breeches. They had had rules: he was not to comment on such things.

He seeks Washington's gaze, challenging him. 'You refused me. More than once.'

His eyes are dark as he threads his fingers back into Hamilton's hair. This time, at least, he warns him. 'There is more soap to wash out.'

Hamilton is prepared this time as he is pulled under. He doesn't fight. He still feels like the man is drowning him.

'Things are different now,' Washington says quietly when he surfaces.

Hamilton hauls himself out of the tub, taking the towel and putting some distance between them, needing the chance to sort through his racing thoughts.

('Hamilton,' he had said, his voice hard, his face closed, 'Cease this at once. I am your commander, and I will not debase you-'

He had flushed, humiliated. 'Do you think I debase myself? Then you debase yourself also. I know you want me.'

The General had turned his back, shoulders drawn, and gritted out, 'The weakness of men is not exceptional, but that does not give us the freedom to act on it without consequence. If you will not safeguard your honor, I will.')

'Does my honor mean nothing to you, now?' he mutters. He doesn't know if Washington can hear him, but he supposes the answer is obvious.

What had offended Washington more, he wonders, his deception, or his inherited status?

He hears the creak of the floorboard and the soft pad of footsteps behind him and holds his breath as he is approached. Washington stops just short of touching him and he feels heat coursing through his veins. How long had he wanted this? How long had he wondered what it would be like to be touched by those firm fingers, held in those strong arms, pushed down and taken apart? He'd wanted this.

But not quite like this.

'Sir,' he whispers, 'I...' 

The words die in his throat. It's easier to lean back into his arms and shiver when those hands rest on his hips. It's easier to tilt his head to the side and close his eyes at the sensation of lips at his pulse. It feels good, damnit, when Washington takes his half-hard cock in hand and massages it to full life, and when he is led to lie upon the bed he betrays his eagerness with his moans, all preoccupations swept away by lust.

Eyes closed he feels Washington's fingertips press against his lips and he can feel himself flushing at the suggestion. His commander's eyes are clouded with lust, his expression serious, so serious, and Hamilton, who has always been lighthearted with his lovers, is overwhelmed by it.

He parts his lips and lets the two thick fingers slip in, scraping slightly across his teeth to rest on his tongue. Washington pushes his head down into the pillow and his legs spread on instinct as he is laid out, heart pounding, tremors of lust and trepidation taking over him.

Nothing feels quite real.

The fingers are withdrawn as Washington kisses down his chest, running those hands down his sides and onto his hips.

His damp hand falls once more to his cock and he keens at the rough way it's handled. He wants, so much.

'Sir,' he stutters, 'I-'

He feels a finger at his hole and he forgets what he was about to say, tensing on instinct, but not out of fear. The lust in him is building to untenable levels.

'Yes, boy?' Washington asks him, withdrawing the digit. His gaze is so direct he covers his eyes, a little laugh escaping, though he couldn't say why.

'Is there any oil?' he whispers, a little mortified at his own admission of experience. He was never quite sure if the General had known of him and Laurens.

A hand presses on his chest for a moment and then he hears the creak of Washington leaving the bed. Propping himself up on his elbows he watches Washington pad across the room to the chest of drawers. He's still clothed, unlike Hamilton, but even under the layers of uniform he can see the power in that body, and it provokes another shiver of lust in him, as it always has.

Hating to be still he gets up as well and meets Washington half way across the room. He can't bring himself to meet his eyes so he sets to unbuttoning his shirt, the general standing still to let him, as if he is a servant tending to his master. His lip twists at the thought, and his gut churns in humiliation.

Bending down to help him remove his breeches brings him face to face, for the first time, with the smooth, dark cock, thicker and longer than anything he's taken before. He peaks up and feels a hand on his hair and can just see Washington's lip bitten in want, a smirk settling into place.

The sight of him on his knees before him is affecting, apparently.

(You once offered yourself to me)

He's so humiliatingly aroused, but his mind is jittery with the jibes he has taken since his disgrace and he stands abruptly, overcome by a roiling in his stomach, an anger that he wants to speak.

'I suppose you would love to shut me up like that,' he bites out with aimless bitterness, staring at his master's neck simply because that is what's in front of him. It's a silly and nonsensical thing to say, but he's heard that said about him before and it just slips out like a script he's rehearsed. 

His hair is gripped and pulled until his head is tilted right back. 'The thought has crossed my mind,' Washington growls, and then swivels him so that he faces the bed and can feel Washington's back against his, and his cock against his arse. He cringes, his own erection plainly responding. 

'You can hardly be aggrieved, Alexander,' comes a gentle admonishment in his ear. 'You have kept for yourself no virtue, after all.'

Well, he hasn't, but he still feels a little like crying right now, like some maiden ripped from her sanctum. He thinks about refusing, ending this. But, he tries to think rationally, he has nothing left to lose and everything to gain from this. What good would it do him to deny Washington his right? What good would to deny himself the heat coursing through his blood?

He wants Washington to understand. 'I just,' he chokes out, humiliation bringing him to close his eyes. The words aren't worth it, but this time they come anyway. 'The heart answers to no reason. I grieve anyway, for my fall in your eyes. I wanted...' Respect. And perhaps love, too, though such a thing is far less valuable. 

Washington is silent behind him, holding him close, still. Hamilton doesn't know if he has robbed him of his words, or if he merely doesn't care.

Whichever it is he does not pursue the subject further. With a nip at his shoulder he is pushed to the bed, offering no resistance. He buries his face as oil-slicked fingers push into him, gasping with the sensation. The way he is worked open is too much, too thorough, so that when Washington strokes his balls he's nearing orgasm just from that alone.

He holds on, biting down.

He can't resist craning his head around to see Washington when it stops. His commander is unsmiling, unsatisfied, even as he is slicking himself up.

Perhaps his words got to him after all.

A hand rests heavily on his back for a moment of stillness, as Washington seems to hesitate. He stays where he is, staring over his shoulder, waiting.

Washington leans down and kisses him with surprising gentleness. 'Don't grieve. You're mine, now.'

Mine.

He shivers, gaze sliding away. Feels the cockhead press into him and tries to relax, his breath short.

Even with all the preparation it still hurts enough to gasp, his hands scrabbling for purchase in the bedsheets. Washington doesn't wait for him, thrusting with fluid motions that leave him no space to think, nothing but the rocking pain and pleasure. It feels so fucking good, so right and he finds himself laughing through his panting.

The force of his orgasm wipes his mind clean, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through him until he is limp on the bed.

The thrusts are more pain than pleasure, afterwards, and he cries out as they grow rougher. With no lust to crowd his mind he curls in disgust, suddenly wishing it will end soon. Washington groans behind him and he feels his seed filling him, warm and foreign, and he lets out a sob.

It's over and he pants, keeping his face down in the pillow, not ready to see or be seen.

He doesn't know what he feels, except that perhaps the world is ending, or-

Washington lays a soothing hand upon his back, stroking him gently as he comes down, or up, relaxing a little. They do not speak. Hamilton feels a little as if he just sealed a devil's pact, but he's sated and tired and hungry and weak, emotions wrung out of him. He hardly notices as Washington tugs him back to the tub to sponge him off. He's dazed, in truth.

Washington strokes his cheek in what could be concern. Hamilton isn't sure of anything anymore, if ever he was.

'Come to bed, Alex,' he commands with a kiss, and Hamilton follows. Washington envelopes him in his heat and it's all too natural, all too comforting. A lover's embrace.

Sleep takes an age to find his uneasy soul that night, all the while Washington snores gently beside him, sturdy as stone.


End file.
